


you affect me

by truthhurts (cicadas)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Kink Exploration, M/M, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 05:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16826488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/truthhurts
Summary: Tony doesn't like being handed things. Or told what to do.Peter becomes the exception to this rule.





	you affect me

It’s common knowledge Peter was a smart kid.

He aced his tests in high-school, created his own web fluid from scratch, and isn’t too bad at picking up social cues, either. A good, all-rounded kid, staying youthful even past his eighteenth birthday.

Tony knew this better than anyone. Which is why the little things Peter had started doing didn’t go unnoticed by him.

At first it was the looks. The constant flicking his way that Peter’s brown eyes did, the longing stares Tony caught sight of in the reflection of his screens. Sometimes they’d make eye contact, and he’d expect the kid to look away, but he always kept his gaze. Kept on staring, lips slightly parted, eyes wide, until Tony had to be the one to break it.

Whatever this was, he didn’t want to give out any indication he wanted it to continue.

So of course Peter upped the ante.

Invisible to other people, but Tony knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows Peter knows his tells, his quirks, the things he likes. Because Peter’s smart, which means he’s probably picked up on the fact that Tony’s onto him.

And that Tony had done nothing to stop him.

“Mr. Stark?”  
  


Peter waved the screwdriver - extra long, able to reach the tricky places of the project he was currently working on - in front of Tony’s face.

Tony shook his head as if to clear it and looked up. Peter was watching him with the slight twist of a smile on his face.  
  


“Yeah, kid?” He answered.  
  


Peter scrunched up his face. “I’m almost nineteen, you should really stop calling me kid, it’s weird,”  
  


“And yet you still call me Mr. Stark,”  
  


“Do you find it weird?”  
  


Tony looked over at the boy, who had a look on his face Tony couldn’t pick.  
  


“No, it’s not,” He said, then added, “Actually yeah, maybe a little bit, seeing as how you’re the only one who knows me personally who still says it.”  
  


Peter’s head tilted to the side a little, “Well maybe you should call me Mr. Parker.”  
  


He said it like a suggestion. Playful, but Tony could tell there was something layered underneath.  
  


He played it off as a joke, taking the screwdriver from his hand and placing it down on the work bench. “Kid, I see you as my equal and all, but I’m not that formal.”  
  


He went to open the drawer under the bench to bring out the kit the screwdriver belonged to - maybe a different head would work better on the tech - but was stopped by Peter’s hand pushing the drawer shut.

“Kid, c’mon.” He said, pulling at the handle, knowing full well the drawer would break before he got it open with _Peter_ holding it closed.  
  


“No, not ‘kid’, Tony,” he said, forming his words slowly. "Who am I?"  
  


Fuck, that’s the first time he’d heard the kid _(Peter)_ say his name, especially like that. Tony holds his gaze, waiting for him to laugh, poke fun at him, say ‘Ha, just kidding Mr. Stark, I got you’. But Tony knows he won’t. Because he recognises the look on his face. He’d seen it on men - and women - he’s been with before. Biblically. He’d seen it in the mirror.  
  


“Tony?” Peter repeated, and Tony couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t deny himself this.  
  


So he said, “Can I open the drawer, Mr. Parker?” with as much seriousness as he could muster. (God, he was ridiculous).  
  


Peter, the little shit, just laughed. A low chuckle, unfamiliar to the loud laugh he usually lets out. “I don’t know, can you?”  
  


Tony sighed. This is stupid, this is stupid, what is he doing?-- “May I open the drawer?” He said, and tried to feel like he hadn’t just begged someone more than half his age to do something in _his own workshop._  
  


(Tried to ignore the flush of warmth in his stomach at doing just that.)  
  


Peter let go of the drawer, humming, and promptly went back to working on his project. He paid no mind to Tony for the rest of the half hour.  
He went home at six, and Tony was alone in his workshop, wondering what the hell just happened.

  
-  
  
  


The next week went by smoothly. Tony fixed a bug in Peter’s suit, and the kid thanked him with an enthusiastic hug-turned-high-five, even though he did a majority of the coding. Tony figured he didn’t want a big fuss to be made over his progress, so he left it be. Rewarded him with a free pizza and offered up the gym to test the suit out in, just to make sure everything was good.

He took the pizza, but declined the test offer. He’d test it at home, and besides, he said, he didn’t have many hours left before he had to go home. Tony recognised it as the ‘I want to spend time with you’ for what it was. He left that be, too.

About halfway into his pizza, Peter asked for a napkin.

Tony was at the island bench, nursing a scotch (he’d debated not drinking in front of Peter, but it was a Thursday and he was tired and it was just one). He nodded a ‘Sure, kid,’ and pulled a few squares from the roll by the sink, walking the few steps to the table to hand them to Peter.  
  


The boy took them with a wordless thanks, wiped his mouth and hands, then went to pass it back.  
  


“You right there, kid?” He prompted, waving at the used paper towel.  
  


“Put this in the trash for me, will you, Tony?” Peter said.  
  


Tony frowned. “You want me to put your trash in the bin for you, now, too?” He said, trying to gauge where Peter was going with this. He had a feeling he knew.  
  
He had a feeling he knew exactly what Peter was doing.  
Peter, incredibly, kept his face completely impassive. Where all this confidence was was coming from, Tony had no idea. Or maybe it was there all along and he just never noticed it. Not in this way.

“I can put it away myself, and we’ll leave it at that.” Peter said, voice low, “Or you could do it for me.”  
  


Such a simple statement, but it held such weight.  
  


“Sure thing, Mr. Parker,” Tony said sarcastically, trying to play it off as a joke. He was scared of how his voice would sound if it didn’t carry humour right now.  
  


Peter gave him a tilted smile. “Go on then,”  
  


Tony took the napkin, and felt Peter’s eyes burning into the back of his skull as he turned around to put it in the trash bin in one of the island’s cupboards.

He turned around empty handed, and Peter smiled.  
  
  
“Good, Tony.”  
  


God. The words shot through him, a sudden burst of warmth settling the anxiety that had been forming in his gut. He did good. He did what Peter said, Peter was happy with him. The warmth settled into his skin as something he recognised as placation. He was confused, sure, but he felt...okay. Assured.

Peter went back to his pizza. Tony went back to his scotch.  
  


-  
  


Later that night, Peter was re-packing his things into his backpack, getting ready to head home. Tony has insisted on giving him a lift, but Peter told him he had a friend picking him up. They were going to catch a movie - some science-fiction flick Tony’d already forgotten the name of.

He settled knowing the kid at least wasn’t catching public transport at 7pm.

Peter was ready to go, Tony could see that. But the kid wasn’t leaving.

Instead, he was watching him.

  
Then, imperceptibly, his eyes flicked down to his feet. Then back up at Tony.

What was-- oh. Okay.

His laces were untied.

Tony looked back up at Peter, and the hard look in his eyes (that same look) had that buzz rushing back through his blood.

As if sensing what Tony was feeling, Peter spoke up.

  
“Tie them for me?”  
  


The words were short and simple, but the undertone was clear.

Tony swallowed.

They were only a few steps apart, but it felt like a mile.

The man kept his eyes on Peter, whose breathing had picked up a little - Tony could see the rise and fall of his chest through his t-shirt. He didn’t doubt his own had done the same.

He knew exactly what he was agreeing to when he started to bend down, fingers trembling to touch the sneakers on his feet, to do as he was told, to _submit._ Knew he was saying yes to more than just this act.

“Yes, Mr. Parker.”

His knees hit the hardwood the floor. It felt like confirmation.

**Author's Note:**

> i've got no idea what this is, alright.  
> title from some mid-lyric of trash people by cherry glazerr


End file.
